It had been a while since Dana ran the computer systems, but she knew how everything worked and the briefing package Marmor had delivered was quite simple in most ways. Dana put a map up on the screen. “Early in the morning, while somewhere in the Indian Ocean, the yacht East Wind was boarded by pirates.The captain managed to get an SOS off before being removed from the bridge. He also activated a tracking system of which, thus far, the pirates remain unaware.”

  “Seems like a job for the navy.” Flame turned to Dorrance. “Is that why you’re here, sir?”

  “Our navy will not involve itself in this,” the admiral said, and shook his head slowly. “It occurred far from our coastal waters and involves no US citizens.” He looked at Flame. “The Australian navy does have a frigate not too far away—but they if they stop the yacht, the pirates may kill their hostages.”

  “I understand.” Flame nodded once. The Aussies were good sailors and solid soldiers but they lacked the kind of Special Forces expertise that Flame and his friends represented. The Brits could do this… He turned to Marmor. “What about your government—SAS could handle this with no sweat at all.”

  “I’m afraid we have our own political issues here—made worse by the fact that, for all practical purposes, we have no naval assets anywhere near enough to handle the problem.”

  “So if it’s not a British problem,” he said, nodding at Marmor, "and it’s not an American problem…” Flame gave a similar nod to the admiral. “So whose problem is it?”

  “Ours.” Dana answered bluntly. “Ours because no one else is willing or able to handle it—and it has to be handled.”

  “Mind telling me why?” Flame raised an eyebrow at his partner. “We can’t need money that badly.”

  “It’s not about the money.” She turned to the computer, and keyed in new information. “This particular yacht was not on a pleasure cruise—although that’s the cover story for the rest of the world.” Two photos appeared on the large screen. “These two gentlemen are Edward Said and Moshe Carmel. They were on the yacht—with the blessing of their respective governments—to see if they could find a way out of the long-standing Israeli/Palestinian stalemate.”

  “Big job.” Flame leaned closer. “Did they have any real authority?”

  “That is what we have been led to believe,” Marmor broke in. “They were both told that any agreement they made would be binding on their respective government.”

  “The yacht was to keep them out of the public eye.” Flame nodded. “Give them the freedom to talk openly.”

  “Exactly.” Marmor nodded.

  “Do the pirates know what they have?”

  “We don’t think so.” Marmor gestured for Dana to bring up the next image. “It will take several days for the yacht to reach a port the pirates consider safe. During that time, my people will try to negotiate some kind of ransom agreement—both the Palestinians and the Israelis will stay out of the negotiations for obvious reasons.”

  “What do you want us for?” Flame already knew—he just wanted to hear the other man say it.

  “You’re our insurance.” Marmor leaned forward. “If negotiations fail, we want you to have a team ready to board the yacht and rescue the passengers.”

  “Any idea where this will be?” Aesop put in. “It will make a difference in the gear we’ll need.”

  “An African port,” the admiral interjected. “We’re sure of that.”

  “What do you think, Flame?” Dana looked at her partner. “Can we put together a team capable of this sort of mission?”

  “I’ll have to make a few calls—you too, Aesop.” Flame thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think we can put something together.” He turned to Marmor. “We’ll need a bunch of specialized equipment.”

  “You’ll get it,” said the admiral. “Just let me know what you need.”

  “All right.” Flame nodded once. “Give me thirty-six hours…”

  “Make it twenty-four.” The admiral leaned forward. “This is time-sensitive; if the press gets even a whiff of this…”

  “All right.” Dana looked around the table and glanced at her watch. “We will return here for a final meeting at nineteen-hundred hours tomorrow.”

  “Not here,” the admiral said, and shook his head. “Somewhere outside the city. I don’t want anyone seeing me come back to this building that soon after this visit.”

  “The usual place?”

  “That should do.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” Dana stood and watched as the others did the same. “I’ll fill Mr. Marmor in on the location.”

  ***

  Edward Said stared at the discolored ceiling of the little cabin he was now sharing with two members of the crew—his own cabin had been appropriated by the ship’s new captain. They have no idea who they have captured. He’d realized that when the pirates had split the crew and passengers up and assigned them cabins. If they’d known who he and Moshe were, they would have put them together in order to keep a better eye on them while arranging a ransom.

  No, Said shook his head. They know nothing. This ship was a target of opportunity—nothing more. He smiled as he considered the irony of that—a true chance of lasting peace between Jews and Arabs smashed by Muslim pirates from another part of the world.

  Allah is trying to tell me something, Said told himself. The question is, he thought, licking dry lips, what?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Flame sighed as he prepared for bed. He’d done something this evening that he hadn’t done in a long time—he’d gone to one of the bars in Georgetown looking for a likely girl to pick up.

  It hadn’t taken long to find one to his tastes—long-haired and leggy—and a drink or two later, the two of them were headed for her place and, he'd hoped, a night in which he wouldn’t have to worry about dreams.

  It was not to be. The girl was pretty enough, and perfectly willing—anxious in fact—to help Flame through the night. The two kissed and moved toward the bed, both of them ready for what was to come.

  It was at that moment, with his eyes looking into hers, that Flame realized why he’d chosen this particular girl. She looks like Kimberly! He pushed himself away, staring into the startled girl’s face. Am I that screwed up? he asked himself, already knowing the answer.

  No. He levered himself off the bed and onto his feet. I can’t—I won’t do it! It would be a betrayal…

  Moments later he was pulling his shoes on and apologizing to the shocked and confused co-ed.

  He left before she quite realized what was happening and Flame, angry at himself and, by proxy, the world, headed for the Metro, anger and frustration simmering within him.

  He was almost at the station when he ran into the crowd of college boys from a nearby university, who'd been tossed from one of the bars. Getting kicked out hadn't gotten them back to their dorms; they just took the party to the sidewalk.

  Right across Flame’s path.

  Normally, Flame would have smiled, shaken his head at the group’s drunken rowdiness, and crossed the street—avoiding an unnecessary confrontation. He was, after all, a man with nothing to prove.

  This was not a normal day, however—and Flame was not himself. He looked at the young men and the ghost of a smile touched his lips—since his days in BUD/S, he’d known that a good fight was just the thing to flush away the rest of the world.

  He waded right into the middle of the group, shouldering drunken students aside with each step.

  I hope one of them will take a swing at me. It was stupid but he knew that’s what he wanted. I wish they’d give me an excuse to smash their spoiled little heads…

  At first the boys pushed back, yelling and crowding around him, as they made all kinds of threats.

  Then one of them, a little less drunk than the others, got a good look at Flame’s face. He sobered up in an instant and pulled the others out of the way, backing them off and leaving a wide berth for the big ex-SEAL.

  At the time, Flame had been disappointed.

  It’s just as well, he told himself later, back at his apartment. Dana would have been pissed if I ended up in jail. He shook his head. And it might have screwed up my firearms license…

  He eased into the bed. Maybe I should take some pills—I still have some around here somewhere…

  He shook his head again. No. I have to face this, have to work out what’s wrong with me. He laid his head on the pillow. I have to fight—even if I’m fighting myself!

  Fight he did, tossing and turning for hours until, with the sun peeking through his windows, he gave up and pulled on his running shoes…

  ***

  Dana silently shook her head as Flame came through the door of the office later that day. I don’t think he slept at all, she thought. This thing with Kimberly is eating him away from the inside—and I don’t see what I can do about it. She had considered keeping him out of the current mission but decided that would be counterproductive. He’s the best man for the job, she knew, and besides, he was her partner and her friend. I can’t do something like that to him.

  She resolved to find some kind of solution—even if it meant sending Flame to the Vet’s hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.

  I’ll think about that later. She motioned for the big SEAL to sit across from her. For now, let’s get this mission out of the way. “Got some names for me?” she asked.

  “Question first,” he said, leaning forward. “Just how big is this yacht we’re talking about?”

  “East Wind—that’s the name of the yacht.” Bivens had heard the question and was anxious to answer it. “It's currently the property of Citicorp.” He put a picture of the vessel on the screen. “It belonged to a Hollywood big shot. The name has been removed and I haven’t taken the time to find out who it was—should I?”

  “No, Eric. No need for that.”

  “Okay, the boat is about…”

  “Not a boat,” Flame put in. “Too big to be a boat. An ocean-going yacht is a ship.”

  “But a submarine is a boat!” Eric near-whined.

  “Different set of rules. We’re talking about a ship here—just tell me how big it is.”

  “Sorry,” Bivens turned back to his keyboard. “The ship is just over 150-feet long and normally runs with a crew of ten.”

  “Two of them will be servants,” Dana put in. “One will be a chef.”

  “That means at least one more officer and either five or six seamen.” Flame nodded. “Figure that there are anywhere from five to twenty pirates aboard.” He glanced at the image on the screen. “Lots of space to move around.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t see us using a large team for this.” He looked down at the desk. “Transport would be an issue and once we got aboard, we’d bump into one another.”

  “How many?”

  “I think three of us,” he said as he looked into Dana’s eyes. “Me, Aesop…”

  “I thought his leg was an issue.”

  “He can swim just fine, if we put a non-slip sole on his prosthetic…” Flame shrugged. “He can do it and I trust him behind me.”

  “Who’s number three?”

  “Fixer did a good job on the last mission. He’s been trained in UDT and ship-handling by the same people that trained me.” He nodded. “I talked to him and he’s available—he’ll stay that way until I get back to him later tonight.”

  “What about logistics?”

  “You and Bivens can handle that from here.” He glanced at the computer console. “Assuming you can find a satellite to bounce signals to us.”

  “Already got one lined up.”

  “That’s settled then.” Flame leaned back. “Where do we go to meet up with the admiral and Mr. Marmor?”

  “You can ride with me.” Dana smiled. “I think you’ll find it quite an interesting place.”

  ***

  “A barbecue joint?” Flame laughed a twenty-minute drive later. “You and the head of the DIA are meeting in a cheap-ass barbecue joint?”

  “He says this kind of place is safe—nobody is likely to notice him here.”

  “They don’t notice an old man and a hot girl?” Flame shook his head. “Man, I wonder what his wife would think of that!”

  “His wife?” Dana pulled into the gravelly parking lot. “The admiral is married?”

  “You didn’t know?” Flame shook his head. “He married an intel analyst that was attached to his last seaborne command.” He smiled. “Cute little lieutenant-commander.”

  “She was intelligence?”

  “Yep, Priest worked with her on a mission back in the day.” Flame opened the door. “She retired after the marriage, of course. Too much possible conflict of interest if they were both in the service.”

  “Works for some.”

  “Not at that level.” Flame led the way to the rather dingy restaurant. “Somebody always cries favoritism and you’re stuck in investigations for the next few years while the choice assignments are held back because you might be ‘compromised.’” He shook his head. “The admiral and his lady did the right thing.”

  “I see a booth over there.” Dana pointed to the back of the seating area. “C’mon.”

  Moments later, Flame was surprised as he watched Dana order two scotches—neat.

  “I didn’t know you drank.”

  “I don’t—at least, not often.” She looked at her partner. “The admiral, however, does like a drink now and then and it’s our custom that the first one to sit down buys the first round.”

  “I’ll bet he’s never first.” Flame’s eyes were suddenly twinkling. “Is he?”

  Dana thought about it. They’d been playing this game for just a bit over a year… Was he ever first into our meeting place? She wrinkled her brow, going over the various bars and restaurants they had used. Once, I think. Way back…

  “He has been first,” she retorted, and gave Flame a look of superiority. “And he did buy.”

  “Good for you.” Flame chuckled. “The old man is famous for getting his juniors to buy.” He looked up. “And speaking of the old man…”

  Dorrance slid into the opposite side of the booth and picked up his drink. As he took the first sip, Marmor arrived and pushed in beside the admiral.

  He just barely fit.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting for too long,” the admiral remarked. “Mr. Marmor was a bit late to our arranged meeting today.”

  “I was delayed by new information.” The rotund Brit ran his gaze over Flame and Dana. “My people have located the East Wind.” He pulled a map out of his pocket. “It’s just here,” he said as he pointed toward a point north of Madagascar.

  “What’s their setting and speed?” Flame asked.

  “They’re heading west but are moving very slowly.” He glanced at the admiral. “My people think they’re having problems with the engines.”

  “Or the crew did something to slow them down.” Dorrance put in. “Either way, they’re going to take three or four days to get to shore—assuming they’re going to Somalia which we believe to be their destination.”

  “Three days.” Flame sat back. “Can we get there quickly enough to do anything?”

  “I have a plane chartered to take your team to Australia,” Marmor put in. “Once there, you will be taken by helicopter to a point less than ten miles from theEast Wind.” He smiled. “There’s an Aussie frigate already nearby that’s been searching for evidence of Malaysia Airlines flight MH370.”

  “Way up there?” Flame frowned. “There’s no way they can find anything.”

  Marmor’s smile widened. “There is always a way—do you know how many different places that plane has been reported?” He shrugged. “What’s one more?”

  “Does this frigate have the gear we’ll need?”

  “You’ll bring your own.” The admiral leaned forward. “I’m assuming that you’ll take a three- or four-man team, right?”

  “Three, I figure.”

  “I’ll have a full SEAL insertion team set-up on your plane by…” he glanced at his watch. “…oh-five-hundred.”

  “That should work.” Flame turned to Marmor. “We’ll board at oh-five-thirty and work from there.”

  “I will notify my people,” Marmor started to get up, then realized that the admiral was not moving.

  “Let’s have some ribs first.” Dorrance smiled. “This place is famous for them.”

  “You gotta eat,” Flame put in.”

  “Exactly,” the admiral gestured to call the waitress. “You have to eat.”

  Ten minutes later, they were doing just that.

  ***

  More than seven thousand miles away, Edward Said regarded the meager bowl of rice that was to be his sole meal of the day. Earlier, he and his counterpart Moshe Carmel, along with the other members of East Wind’s original crew, stood on the deck in the hot sun while their new "captain" paced back and forth in front of them screaming invective in a language that none of them really understood.

  The man seemed to realize that and reverted to a pidgin Arabic that made some sense—at least at first.

  He was upset because someone (he didn’t know who) had done something (he didn’t know what) to the yacht’s engines. Some kind of sabotage that was limiting their speed to only a few knots—slowing them down and keeping them from reaching their destination when the captain wanted to get there.

  He wanted to know who had done such a terrible thing. He threatened terrible punishments for whoever had dared defy him, not thinking that those threats would certainly dissuade anyone from admitting to the act.

  He kept pacing and cursing, his Arabic turning to something far less understandable and then devolving into a sort of bestial rant that ended with the men herded back to their cabins and sentenced to short rations until someone came forward and confessed.